


Rule the Waves

by PlantagenetLoyalist



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: AU- Quellon Greyjoy survives the War of the Usurper, AU- Rodrik Greyjoy isn’t a drunken sod and a fucking prick, F/M, Glorious Ironborn Empire that is not centered on killing people and taking their stuff, Greyjoy Rebellion, House Greyjoy, Ironborn Culture & Customs, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rodrik is essentially Hannibal Barca, The Ironborn (ASoIaF), What is Dead May Never Die
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-06
Updated: 2020-06-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:27:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22147171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlantagenetLoyalist/pseuds/PlantagenetLoyalist
Summary: With his enlightened grandfather’s health rapidly declining, his father’s zealotry and backwardness spiraling out of control, and the future of his House and People becoming more and more uncertain, Rodrik Greyjoy realizes the fate of the Iron Isles rests of his shoulders, and he’d rather die a thousand horrid deaths before letting the proud Kraken fall into oblivion.
Comments: 7
Kudos: 31





	1. Rodrik I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With his enlightened grandfather’s health rapidly declining, his father’s zealotry and backwardness spiraling out of control, and the future of his House and People becoming more and more uncertain, Rodrik Greyjoy realizes the fate of the Iron Isles rests of his shoulders, and he’d rather die a thousand horrid deaths before letting the proud Kraken fall into oblivion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all, this is my first fic dealing with the world of GoT/ASOIAF. I have always been a Greyjoy and Ironborn fan, as I love the Oceanic and Nautical aesthetic of the Iron Islands. As this is my first work, constructive criticism is highly encouraged.
> 
> The main idea of this whole thing centers around Balon Greyjoy's firstborn- Rodrik Greyjoy. In GRRM's original story line, Rodrik was a cruel, drunken moron who got himself killed in a suicidal attempt at taking the Riverlander fortress of Seagard during the Greyjoy Rebellion. Although all information on Rodrik's persona and life is mostly through Theon's memories, a questionable source at least, it is most likely safe to say that Rodrik Greyjoy at the bare minimum was an asshole.
> 
> In this alternate universe however, Rodrik is neither a drunk nor a vile sadist. Instead, he spent much of his early life under the mentorship of his grandfather Quellon, an enlightened man who sought to reform the Iron Islands to keep up with the rest of Westeros, turning Rodrik into a fine young man with a good sense of realism and what needed to be done to continue his grandfather's work.
> 
> I do not own any of GRRM's or any previously listed works.

**Rodrik I**

The heir to the Iron Isles found a strange comfort and solace in storms, particularly the one that was currently hammering the castle of Pyke. Though the ancient Ironborn fortress was in no threat of being damaged by the Maelstrom, nothing could be done to silence the roar of the tempest and sea combined. Rodrik Greyjoy could not explain why the storm calmed him, but instead chose to enjoy his odd contentedness.

In his personal quarters in the Bloody Keep, he silently read the histories of his nation. Although he paid his ancestors and forefathers their respects and honors they were owed, he found the story of the Ironborn to be a pathetic joke. Occasionally a great man would arise out of the hordes of idiots, such as Harwyn Hardhand and Vickon Greyjoy, but for time immortal the nation of shit-stained rocks was cursed with backwards and incompetent rulers who simply led his people into oblivion.

Harren the Black, the man who ruled from Blackwater Bay to the Lonely Light, personally sabotaged the Empire generations of Hoares and Ironborn had died to build by draining the treasury on his personal vanity project which was turned to ash and ruin by Aegon and his dragons. Dalton 'The Red Kraken' as he so pompously called himself, was adored by the Greyjoy family, and yet everyone seemed to forget how he accomplished nothing in his short reign. For some strange reason, throwing all of one's resources in a futile campaign for glory against the Westerlands somehow immortalizes you in the Iron Islands. 

The Old Way, as the Drowned Men and Traditionalists called it, was a plague to the Ironborn. Perhaps murdering and stealing from defenseless peoples along the coast had won glories long ago, but so much of his kin simply could not accept the fact that the very people that once cowered in fear at the sight of the hordes of oncoming longships became tired of being slaughtered, and learnt to fight back. Ever since the Targaryens came to rule the continent of Westeros, the Iron Islands were trapped in a vicious cycle of raiding and being utterly eviscerated by the main lander lords. Hundreds of thousands of his people had been sent to the Drowned God's watery halls for nothing for over three hundred years, and Rodrik was sick of it.

The Ironborn heir still loved the Drowned God, as his family was given dominion over the Iron Isles by him and his blessings onto his illustrious forefather, the Grey King. He had no intention of renouncing his faith to listen to a hypocritical Septon tell him what he could and could not do and be subject to numerous lectures on why the pretentious fucks known as the Andals were the most superior of men in the world, or mindlessly recite long forgotten prayers in front of an ancient tree as his first men cousins did up in the North. It was simply his belief that the Drowned God wished the Ironborn to carve out a name for themselves in this world, and not be cursed to uselessly reave up and down the Coasts of Westeros and Essos in hopes of scraping together the bare minimum of resources needed to keep a lordship, let alone a Kingdom afloat.

The sound of footsteps echoing through the empty halls stirred the young Ironborn from his internal rant. Paranoia kicking in, he reached for the dagger hidden in his jerkin, as he trusted little to none of the idiots on this god-forsaken island. "Brother?" A voice called from just a few feet from him. A moment later appeared his brother Maron, surprisingly missing his trademark shit-eating grin. Rodrik, in no mood to listen to his younger brother bitch and moan about being a second son put on his best scowl and prepared to tell his brother off. "Maron, I have no time for your..."

"Grandfather's dead." Maron cut him off.

A sudden stinging sensation engulfed Rodrik as grief began to strangle him. Sinking back into his chair, he did his best to fight back the tears welling in his eyes, as Maron quietly observed him. Perhaps it was Balon Greyjoy who sired Rodrik, but it was Quellon Greyjoy who was truly his father. While Balon slapped his firstborn for questioning the Old Way and it's idiocy, Quellon took the young man under his wing, raising and educating him to be a proper lord, not a backwards Luddite who sought to rape, pillage, and plunder everything that came across his path. The Old Kraken's health had deteriorated rapidly following Robert's Rebellion, or War of the Usurper as some of the Greenlander lords muttered. Rodrik frankly did not care whether a Mad Dragon or a Bloated Stag sat on the most bizarre chair ever, but what was done to Crown Prince's wife and children was nothing short of monstrous, ensuring that the eldest Greyjoy had no love for the new regime. 

Regaining composure, he addressed his brother, "I'd almost have wished you were here to antagonize me as you always do." Balon's eldest son laughed bitterly.

Maron hummed grimly in agreement. It was bizarre to see his usually cruel and annoying brother sympathetic and caring. For so long Balon's eldest sons had only interacted with one another in fiery arguments and bickering, or when a bored Maron was simply trying to get a rise out of Rodrik. It was quite odd to see them at peace with another. Maron was first to break the silence, "What happens now?" He asked bluntly.

Fear and disgust quickly overtook Rodrik as he realized what was to come. Balon Greyjoy was poison to the Iron Islands, he constantly ranted and raved of how horrid and sacrilegious Quellon's reforms had been, and all the progress his grandfather had made was now immediately threatened. "Father will be our liege Lord." Rodrik spat. He had no love for his father, the man who beat his wife and children and would willingly lead his people into ruin. 

Rodrik stood up, empowered with firm resolve. He would not fail his grandfather, the man who spent his life ensuring the name Greyjoy and Ironborn inspired respect. With a sharp inhale, he clasped his brother's shoulders and spoke. "Whatever happens," he began, "The survival of this household is our priority. I need the Kraken in you Maron, not the annoying squid that pesters everyone on this decrepit island. Mother, Asha, and Theon need us." Surprisingly, Maron nodded fiercely at his brother's speech. "I will fight to my last breath to ensure grandfather's work is not put to the torch, but we must work together to ensure that our idiot of a father does not send us into oblivion.

The two Krakens then embraced, swearing by the Drowned God that they would ensure the safety of their brood. 


	2. Rodrik II

**Rodrik II**

The Funeral is extremely brief, most likely his father's doing. The Drowned Man overseeing Quellon's Last Rites gave no effort of hiding his disdain for his grandsire's progressive ways, and showed no sign of stopping his rant on how superior the Old Way was.

"By the Drowned God," Maron hissed under his breath, "Nothing would please me more than to bury an axe into that fucker's sku-"

"Silence brother." Rodrik shot back, though he would be lying to himself if he did not have the same desire. Nothing, not even Balon Greyjoy stoked the ire of Rodrik more than the Drowned Men. Now there were a few more enlightened priests of the Drowned God to be found throughout the realm, however the only ones on Pyke were shriveled old men that had been most likely driven to madness due the absurd initiation process to become a Drowned Man. Scores of Ironborn had been killed in the process of drowning and attempting to revive oneself, yet these fools still clung to their idiotic ways.

The small crowd watched in silence as several Ironmen gently guided the raft assembled for Quellon's body out to sea. Rodrik could feel the satisfaction of his father radiating off of him, which at first disgusted him, but then realized that he would most likely have the same reaction to seeing his own father's demise. Bowing his head, he offered up a small prayer to the God of the Ironborn, requesting that his real father may find the watery halls of the afterlife. Glancing to his right, he spotted Asha and Theon, both faces threatening to burst into tears at any moment. 

_Good_. Thought the heir to the Iron Isles. It was quite the bittersweet moment for the Greyjoy family, but he felt content knowing that his siblings did not scorn their grandfather like most of the Ironborn here. As far as he was concerned, Quellon would be feasting next to all the greats of the Ironborn, and would see his beloved wife again. Of Quellon's three wives, he loved his second, Hagen Sunderly, very dearly. The mother of the only surviving Greyjoy children left, She had died several years before Rodrik was born, but Quellon would regale him with stories of her beauty and sharp wit.

It was truly a tragic thing to see his grandfather decline. In his boyhood, he could remember Quellon towering over the rest of his family, and his thunderous, booming voice. Even his father, the oh so devoted paragon of the Old Way feared stoking the wrath of the Old Kraken. But Quellon was old, and there was nothing he could do to escape the clutches of time. After Robert Baratheon killed Prince Rhaegar at the Trident and drove the last dragons into exile, his health began to fail at an alarming rate. The aging lord had been bedridden for almost a year, and could barely speak at times. 

Several weeks prior to his passing, Quellon had summoned Rodrik to his chambers. Arriving quickly, Quellon relieved the maester attending to him and spoke plainly with his grandson.

"I am dying." He rasped. The same voice that had instilled terror into the last Black Dragons and commanded legions of Ironmen in battle was brought low to a pathetic whisper, that of which was barely able to be heard even over the most minor of breezes.

Rodrik had nodded grimly. "Father won't let me forget."

The Old Kraken scoffed and summoned his strength to face the son he never had. "When I am dead, my son will attempt to destroy all my work, everything I have done to ensure we are respected as a House and People by the Greenlanders."

"He will lead us into oblivion." Rodrik interrupted.

"My boy," Quellon scolded, "This is no time for your doom and gloom you are so notorious for. You must fight back against this squid who calls himself a Kraken, all is not yet lost. My work is far from complete, but we are not alone in our endeavors. The Goodbrothers and Harlaws have announced their support for us, and the Blacktydes are clearly with us.”

“It doesn’t matter if the entirety of the Isles is at our back, as long as father is Lord Reaver of Pyke we are doomed to ruin!” Rodrik spluttered angrily at his grandfather, who then had given him a look of pure iron. 

Grasping his grandson’s hand, Quellon Greyjoy’s voice returned, if only for a moment, to the thunder it had once been.

“That is up to you Rodrik. I have taught you all I know, and I am proud of the man you have become. But my legacy must continue, and you must fight to your very last breath to ensure the safety of our people.

Shock overtook the young Greyjoy, as he could hardly tell at this point he was looking at a dying man. Quickly coming to his senses, he replied with firm resolve-

“I swear by the Drowned God, and all of my forefathers who have come before me, Balon fucking Greyjoy will not sink us back into the sea.”

Quellon’s hard face had then softened, and his voice had fallen back into a raspy whisper.

”God, why couldn’t you have been my son?”

***  
  


“Are you fucking serious?!” Rodrik spat.

“I cannot say for certain, but knowing father, it is more than likely.” Maron replied.

Rodrik shot out of his desk and placed his hands behind his head, trying in vain to calm the fury muting his common sense.

Maron attempted to reason with his fuming brother, “Calm yourself brother, we can defeat anyone at sea, we have the-”

”Oh yes!” Rodrik barked, “The Greenlander War Galleys are no match for our tiny, exposed long boats.”

Maron sighed. Even he realized the futility of the situation.

Rodrik then returned to his desk, drumming the table furiously, but out of the blue, began to laugh.

“So this is it. This is how we lose everything.”

”Rodrik, maybe their is still hope,” Maron pleaded, “The Martells had their princess butchered, who the fuck knows who the Tyrells are loyal to, and Robert Baratheon sits on his fat arse drinking himself to death!”

The elder Greyjoy exhaled quietly, and unfurled a map of the Seven Kingdoms.

”Our Lord Father intends to declare war on the Greenlander lords, on the basis that the usurper has not won the support of his subjects.” Rodrik began.

Pointing a finger at the south, he continued “Dorne despises the Baratheons and Lannisters, this is true enough, and the Dornish Navy and Army, while decent, has been ground down by the Usurper at the Trident.”

He paused for a moment, then glanced up at his brother.

”The Martells will not send aid to Robert, but they do not give a rat’s arse about us.”

His eyes returning to the map, Rodrik moved his finger westwards to the Reach.

”Fucking Tyrells. Nothing would delight me more then to set the Reach and it’s shiny, perfumed knights ablaze from Tumbleton to Oldtown. The fat flower threw his lot in with the Dragons, but cowered before the stag the moment he got the chance to. The Tyrells need a chance to prove themselves loyal to this new regime, and our little rebellion gives us just that.”

He was about to further lay out the strategic situation when Maron cut him off.

”I understand brother.”

Rodrik sighed once more, and rose from his seat.

”As I told you before” he said as he clasped his brother’s shoulders, ”Our family’s safety and survival comes first. This war will most likely be the death of me, and I need you to look after Theon and Asha.”

”Oh piss off Rod, you’ll be alright.” Maron spoke with confidence, but the fear in his eyes betrayed him.

Rodrik gathered a few things, and moved towards the door. “I shall retire for the night then, we shall speak more in the morning, Good Night Maron.”

His brother echoed his response, and they both began the walk back to their chambers.

***

The walk back to his chambers was perilous enough with the ancient rope bridge, but the seasonal monsoons made it much worse.

”One hundred goddamn years, and no one bothered to make any actual walkways.” Rodrik muttered to himself.

He was a fourth of the way across the death trap waiting to happen, when all of a sudden, everything felt wrong.

The feeling was hard to describe, but it almost felt like he had made a terrible mistake, and was filled to the brim with dread.

Peering upwards, he saw the cause of his dread- a hooded figure blocked his path.

A chill ran down his spine. _Not good._ He thought. He quickly ensured that he still had his dagger on him, and approached the ominous man.

Raising his hand, he offered a cordial greeting,

”What is dead may never die!”

The man did not respond.

”May I pass?”

He still did not respond.

Carefully, Rodrik approached his obstacle. 

Suddenly, the figure lunged with a drawn blade, and just as quickly, Rodrik had drawn his own and relieved him of his throat, sending him gurgling over the side and plunging into the sea below.”

Rodrik was no green boy, he had proved his mettle in Slaver’s Bay with his Uncle Victarion, but he had no intention of sticking around to find out if more people wanted him dead. 

Scurrying across the rope bridge, he threw open the door and slammed it behind him, sinking to the floor and panting.

 _Drowned God help me._ He thought before locking and barring the door.


	3. Rodrik III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do apologize for my extreme inactivity on this story, but fortunately reinvigorated interest on the topic and some free time have provided me with motivation to write another chapter! Please enjoy and review!

**Rodrik III**

Sleep was hard to come by that night, mainly in part to the sharp sting that permeated his cheek, and the aftershocks of the copious amounts of adrenaline that had shot through him in the heat of the moment. His mind raced frantically that night, wondering who would dare to cut his life short on that awful bridge. It was most certainly not an agent of a Greenlander Lord, By the Drowned God, he doubted most of the mainland Lords of Westeros even knew his name. It must've been someone in this rotting "fortress" known as Pyke. Perhaps Father had decided to finally rid himself of his wayward heir? Doubtful. Should Balon Greyjoy have killed his eldest, he'd have been left with a grieving Maron, who despite his harassments had idolized Rodrik all his youth, and a whimpering boy. Rodrik bore no ill will towards Theon but could see that he simply lacked the iron to weather the storm of his father.

Rodrik managed to silence the tempest in his head, and downed a few pints to numb the pain in his cheek, and drift off, only to awake seemingly minutes later at the first signs of light. Unfortunately, as he stirred the affects of the alcohol had clearly been eroded away, and the pain once more became the prime sensation he felt in his face. More of a nuisance than actual suffering however, the Greyjoy heir ran a hand over the wound.

For the most part the bleeding had stopped, the slender cut now choked with dried blood. Luckily his attacker had missed his face for the most part, and only grazed him with a shorter end of the blade, only breaking the skin without causing any damage to the muscles and other meat down below. Killing had made him quite the cynic. When Victarion had taken him at the age of fourteen on a reaving in Slaver's Bay and the Jade Sea, it had puzzled him that he could cut open a man and find the same things he could cut and carve as seen in a fish or beast found in Westeros. It was then he realized, as he sat in a pool of gore as Ironborn raiders plundered the surrounding areas, that man was no better than dogs.

His recounting was interrupted upon hearing several soft knocks at the door in rapid succession. Although assuming it was most likely a thrall or household servant, he still laid a hand on the dagger he kept close by. "Enter." He commanded in a slightly groggy voice.

There was a slight pause, and the large wooden door before Rodrik opened, and there stood a most pitiful sight- a thrall. She was very young, perhaps a few years his junior. As he let her in, he spied numerous cuts and bruises along her arms and the exposed parts of her back, courtesy of her decrepit dress. Rodrik wondered how many times she had been violated, just for sadistic pleasure. One of the many customs of his people and culture he simply could not understand was the horrible treatment of foreign woman. "Harlaw Blood", his father had called it when he refused to rape a captured maid that fucking demon known as his Uncle Euron had taken from Essos, yet he still could not grasp how harming another person, who thought and felt just as him could bring another sexual pleasure?

Upon realizing what his father and uncle had intended him to do that dreadful night, he had scampered away and freed the poor girl and set her loose on a merchant ship heading for Westeros. His father had beat him bloody, but the blows did not even scratch the satisfaction he felt that night. It was then as he lay in bed recovering from his wounds that he swore an oath to himself to never force himself upon a woman, to never commit the unspeakable barbarity he was expected to do by an unholy spirit and a pathetic excuse for a man and father. His people were above this. For hundreds, nay, thousands of years they had been the backwater of civilization. The Ironborn, scoffed the Lords of Westeros. The scum of the Earth. Rodrik would show them otherwise. He vowed to show the world and the drowned God that not all the Ironborn were full of such savagery. A trip down to the lowlands of Pyke revealed the truth. Instead of murderous reavers and rapers, one found humble fishermen and tradesmen, men and women not seeking wanton destruction, but to simply get by, and keep their families fed.

The thrall spoke up, "Lord Greyjoy summons you Milord." Her voice was a whimper. _Fuck Father. Fuck Euron. Fuck everyone._ Were the thoughts that ran through Rodrik as he hauled himself out of bed, and started towards the door. Before he left, he turned back to the girl. "There is a passage beside my room." He gestured to a mildly obscured entryway. The thrall looked confused, but confusion turned to elation as Rodrik slipped her a pouch of coins. "A ship leaves within the hour. Go to Westeros and never come back to this Gods-Forsaken place. Do not fear the guards, my men are like-minded as myself." The girl thanked him profusely and scampered away.

***

The war room. It was really just a gathering hall for the higher ranking members of the Greyjoy nobility, but in the reign of Quellon, it had become the command center for Greyjoy military operations. Maps of various locations around the known world plastered the walls and tables, covered with figurines representing the positioning of units. As Rodrik strolled in, the senior Greyjoys awaited him, with his decrepit father hunched over a desk covered with a map of Westeros. The heir to the Iron Isles saluted his father, and took his place with his family. He noted suspiciously that Euron seemed surprised to see him.

Balon broke his gaze from the yellowing map and looked around the gathered assembly. "The time has come to restore the Iron Isles to Greatness. The Old Way will once more reign supreme over the Sunset Sea, and all will know again the wrath of the Ironborn." Balon's voice was a nasal snarl. Perhaps in his youth he sounded slightly more intimidating, but for Rodrik, a man who had been awe inspired by the thunderous voice of his Uncle Victarion and Grandfather, was left thoroughly unimpressed. Victarion spoke straight to the point. "War with the Greenlanders then brother?" Balon nodded, much to the hidden distress of Rodrik. They could not win such a war, and it would be the death of them all. Balon once more bleated his usual propaganda. "The Stag drinks and whores himself to death in King's Landing. His foster brother has abandoned him with the deaths of Rhaegar's brood, and the loyalties of the other great houses are tenuous at best." Balon smirked confidently. The man wasn't even in denial, he truly believed victory was possible.

Rodrik could not take his father's madness any longer. "How will this be accomplished Father? Our army and navy are woefully unprepared for such a massive conflict?" Balon's eldest was careful with his tone, he still radiated a sense of concern, but to outright challenge his father risked being removed from the war council. If such a war was inevitable, he needed to ensure that the Ironborn and House Greyjoy survived.

What Balon told him brought him both satisfaction and horror. "Your Uncle has impressed me with tales of your heroics in Essos, my son." Balon stared straight into the soul of Rodrik as he droned on. "You have shown yourself as an adept leader of men, and the undoubtedly best candidate to lead our land campaign."

 _Land Campaign? LAND CAMPAIGN?!_ Rodrik had repelled multiple Dothraki raids on an Ironborn camp after several days of reaving in Northern Essos, but while chasing a fleeing war party, had accidentally ambushed a mercenary company in service of Lorath, which he ripped apart with remarkable efficiency. Regardless, this war was suicidal enough, why in the name of the Drowned God was his father planning a land campaign?

"You will seize key strongholds along the Greenlander mainland, further providing us with landing grounds to pour into the Riverlands and Westerlands, burning and pillaging as we go." His father clearly was ignoring reality, but suddenly, an idea developed in Rodrik's mind with the plan to burn and pillage. Perhaps his thrust into the Greenlands were instead a distraction, instead of the center of the bid for Greyjoy independence. Mustering his courage to face his father, he spoke up.

"Father if I may, there is a far better method to restore the Old Way." Upon hearing about his precious backwards movement, Balon refrained from shouting down his eldest son. Rodrik strolled over closer to the map, and began gesturing at the archaic sheet. "It does not matter if one, or all of the Great Houses support King Robert, we will be outnumbered by a substantial amount." The Greyjoys, even Balon, nodded in agreement. "Father, we cannot seek to restore the Empire of the Hoares, for they were weak and corrupt due to vile Andal Influence which destroyed the Old Way, and left us susceptible to Aegon and his dragons." He couldn't believe what he was saying, but it was exactly what his father wanted to hear. "Instead, O Father, I suggest that my assault into the Greenlands to be a mere distraction, while we turn our Isles into an impenetrable fortress."

Balon, quite pleased with hearing the praises of the Old Way sung by his son, was inclined to hear more. "Go on." He said with an intrigued tone. Rodrik continued further, "I will take our best men on a rampage through the Riverlands. For the Greenlander Lords, we will appear to be invading, and they will prioritize hunting myself down as I torch my way through their reserves of wheat and barley, tearing more men and resources away from mounting an attack on our homes. Through cunning and shrewdness, we will plague the Riverlands and more with incessant raids from every direction. Father, we will not win by throwing ourselves against the gates of Westeros in a foolhardy attempt to conquer land, we win by breaking the spirit of the Greenlanders, finally forcing them to decide that we are not worth the thousands of dead and the empty harvest as winter falls upon us."

Balon mulled this over for a moment. Victarion and Euron said nothing. Rodrik was sympathetic to Victarion, he was a slow fellow, but he had a good heart, despite his ferocity in battle. Euron, however, if one looked past his bravado, was quite pathetic when it came to things military. Sure, he could execute his rivals with a group of bloodthirsty thugs, yet he desperately hid the fact that he really knew nothing of strategy. Balon broke the eerie silence with a rather decisive tone of voice. "It pleases me that you have seen the light my son," he began, "Your cunning will be most valuable in our efforts, and your request is granted. You are to pillage the lands of the Riverlands, but I task you with taking Seagard, and decimating the Riverlander fleet to relieve the pressure off of your uncles as they command our navy."

 _Fuck Me._ He thought. Seagard was a fortress specifically built to fend off his people. How the hell was he supposed to take it with an army meant to sneak around the Riverlands? Nevertheless, his father had actually listened, at the cost of his dignity however. Regardless, Rodrik had a plan. Victory was impossible. The Westerosi had too far men and ships, all they had to do was wait for the Ironborn to starve themselves of resources, and mop up the worn out population of Pyke in a final push. What was needed was something that could prevent a centralized push upon the Isles, something that could divide the Westerosi forces into armies scrambling up and down the coasts in search of him and his men. Maybe, just maybe, he could start to pick off isolated contingents of Tully Forces and their bannermen, all the while torching any land he came across. As the months ticked by and he still remained in Westeros, the more likely a white peace could be enforced. He was an abomination to the Greenlanders, someone who defiled their soil with each step. Such an abomination could not be allowed to remain of Westerosi soil, and would be the first thing the opposing force targeted.

As Balon dismissed him and his family, he hurried down to the barracks of Pyke. He would give Robert Baratheon and Hoster Tully their abomination, and buy as much time as physically possible. He couldn't tell if he had lost it after all these years of being trapped in a collective pipe with his father, or if he was finally on to something that could truly deliver his people from evil.   



End file.
